Comeback Kid
by Querel
Summary: After an unfortunate incident regarding his younger brother, Dirk Strider finds himself in the company of the strange boy Jake English. There's something about this unexpected partnership that's dangerous and fascinating and oh, so twisted. Sequel to BWM.
1. Chapter 1

Your name is Jake. And what you are is lethal. You are combat-booted and Saiga-12-armed terror in shorts and spectacles. Normally Russian shotguns aren't your cuppa—you're much more deft with your double Glocks—but you pulled out your big gun today. And that's because on this evening, you're going to put a bullet through someone's head.

You mean it. Maybe all those other times before, you weren't actually going to do it. But today is the day. And it's not like your moral code has suddenly shattered and you've gone completely bonkers. This is a deed of retribution, an act of justifiable vengeance. You're going to kill the sack-rotted wanker who raped Dave, boyfriend to one of your best chums.

You've never been so thrilled before in your life. The ache of a hunter's blood really burns through you like it never has. But that's not the only thing that's making your adrenaline shimmer this evening. You're squatting on a fire escape in a dark and dripping alleyway with your gun against your shoulder. Next to you, perched on the nearby staircase is a man.

You just met him this evening. His name is Dirk Strider and he's Dave's older brother. You're Dave's age, so that puts this bloke at about….thirty-eight at the very minimum, is your guess. But, good gracious, is he fit. Doesn't look a day over twenty-five, if you do say so yourself.

He's sitting there on the staircase with a cigarette between his lips. It gives his shaded face this ethereal glow and you can tell that inside, he's keeping back a monster. You heard it roaring in his subdued inflection but a few hours or so ago when you first met him.

After you and your friends collectively bandaged Dave up, you kept him at your house until his Bro here came to get him. But apparently, the elder Strider felt comfortable enough about his brother's condition that he left him and decided to go man-hunting instead. When he informed you and your friends of this course of action, you immediately volunteered your services.

You couldn't see because of the dark, pointed shades that he wore—seemed a constant, much like the way the younger Strider wore his own pair—but when he turned his face towards you, you could've sworn you knew his eyes narrowed. His head moved slightly, just enough of an indicator to know he was looking you up and down.

"This isn't a joke, kid," he said to you. The sound of his voice burst through you like the first peal of thunder in a summer storm, igniting your thirst for blood even further.

"I should say!" you agreed. "I have choice words to offer anyone who thinks they can hurt my friends. I haven't known Dave for long, but this blatant degradation of his person is intolerable: twofold since it has cause disturbance among those I care about! So I challenge you to keep me from this, Sir! I assure you're your efforts will indubitably be wasted!"

His eyebrow flicked up at you and you steadily lowered the fists you unconsciously raised out of habit. It was like your enthusiasm was linked to your hands. Your cheeks were flushed from embarrassment, but your gaze didn't waver. You hoped to god you were looking him right in the eyes so he could know your sincerity.

With no sigh of resignation or relaxed shoulders or anything to dignify that he had an unspoken change of heart, Dirk Strider nodded at you.

"You got something to defend yourself with?" he asked.

"I do!" And then you ran off to your room and snagged the biggest gun you owned. You burst into John's room to tell him and Dave the happy news and then promptly departed.

Strider drove back to his club Marionette and made a few phone calls while you tried not to look at yourself in the reflective panes of the windows in his office. Couldn't quite help it, though. You looked smashing with that shotgun at your side: a true action movie heartthrob. You even had that eyebrow-flick down perfectly.

"Hey, we're going," he said after he was done with his phone conversations. He left the office and you followed close behind, unable to help the little bounce in your step. You're pretty sure he didn't catch you in the split second you spent posing for yourself, but it was difficult to know.

So that found you sitting on this fire escape in the dusk, waiting for your target to show because Strider assured you he would. You smirk to yourself as you think of some perfectly cheesy one-liner to say when the poor sod shows his face. You won't say it out loud, but you're definitely going to think it before you squeeze the trigger.

"Tell me your name again," Strider says, jerking you out of your daydreaming.

"Oh!" You let the gun slide away as you lean forward, offering your hand. "I'm terribly sorry, I seem to have forgotten my manners completely! It's Jake English, Sir. Entirely my pleasure!" He shakes your hand and you smile at him through the thin haze of cigarette smoke that drifts from his lips.

"Dirk Strider," he says. His grip is firm and though he's wearing gloves, you get the sneaking feeling that his hands are actually slender-fingered. You keep up the grin even after he lets go.

"Oh, I know. Kanaya told me your name."

"She was the one who I talked to on the phone, right?"

"That's right!" You smile at him. He lets out one soft chuckle after taking another drag from his cigarette.

"You're a bit different," he says.

"Definitely," you say, laughing along. "I've been informed that my forthrightness can be a bit off-putting at times but I like to think I make up for it in good-natured chivalry." You do your double-pistols-and-a-wink move and then wonder why the hell you just did that.

Then you tell yourself it's okay because he's trying to hold back a laugh. Yeah, sure, he may be laughing at you but he's got this dimple in his cheek that you didn't expect to exist. So you chortle along—haha, yes, it was exactly your intention to look like a buffoon for your conjoined amusement, jolly good—and then return to the silence.

"So," you say, breaking it almost as soon as it settles, "what's the plan for this slimeball bastard?"

"I'm going to take him to see some friends of mine," Strider says. You frown. That doesn't sound like what you thought you signed up for. Pardon you for being so macabre, but you wanted some viscera.

"That being the case," you begin, an obvious disappointment in your tone, "might I ask what my part in this may be?"

He shrugs.

"You were the one who said you wanted to come along," he says.

"And you were the one who told me to bring a weapon," you retort. "So where does that leave us?"

He smiles. If you weren't already sitting, it would've knocked you on your ass because his smirk is just…wicked. And your pulse has jumped right into your throat.

"I'm guessing you're a pretty good marksman," he says gently, flicking the stub of his cigarette away.

"Yessir," you say, swallowing afterwards to try and wet your throat.

"Well then," he whispers, getting off his perch to crouch low next to you, "I want you to turn around and put a bullet through his kneecap."

You take a deep breath and slowly shift yourself, trying not to make any noise. Sure enough, there's a man down there in the alley, leaning against a dumpster and looking around, all shifty and guilty. Anger flares in you and immediately quells the nervousness that had spawned from Strider invading your space.

"That him?" you ask quietly, getting into a more conducive firing position.

"That's the one," he says. He turns his face towards you as you line up the butt of your gun with your shoulder and sharpen your gaze. "You sure you can go through with this? It's criminal, you know."

You flick off the safety.

"Disgracing another gentleman's pride is criminal," you mutter darkly. "This is justice."

The shot is loud and furious. It rattles your brains in your head and even pushes you back a few centimeters. The reverberation distresses a nearby water pipe but the more apparent music is that of your target who is on the ground, positively screaming in pain.

"Yes," you hiss quietly to yourself.

"Good job."

It's the only words you get before Strider vaults over the grate of the metal platform and lands on the concrete below like some ninja. You're impressed. You put the safety back on your gun and take your time descending.

Strider has clocked the guy in the face, so he's not bawling anymore. You join him, taking care not to step in the pool of blood that's spreading at your feet.

"What now?" you ask.

"Now I have a delivery to make," he says, jerking the man up by his shirt. "You should go home."

"But I'm not going to," you say.

"I figured. Come on. Keep your gun close."

He walks down the alley, dragging the bloodied sod behind him. You grin and bounce right along. What an adventure this is turning out to be!

Jake: Be the corpse carrier.

You are now hauling a man to his doom. Your name is Dirk Strider and you are not fucking around. Your murderous rage has been thankfully dampened by the unexpected company of this English kid but only to the point where you're no longer going to get your hands dirty with the blood of this fucker.

And you mean that literally, not figuratively.

You are his Grim Reaper, but only to the extent that you're making sure that this guy's death is sealed by your will. Your original plan was to find him and mangle him until the only beats in is heart were the beatings of your fists in his chest.

But after the addition of this guy who's practically skipping and humming beside you as you lug a bleeding man around, you decided to do things a bit more delicately.

Because putting a .410 through a guy's leg is about as delicate as you're gonna get in this situation.

This fucker messed with your little bro. Translation: he's dead.

You chuck the guy in your trunk and lock it up before getting into your car. Jake English pops into the passenger seat and doesn't bother buckling his seatbelt as you take off.

"It's gonna be a long drive," you tell him.

"'S fine!" he says. "I fancy a good road trip. Mind if I put down the window?"

"Go ahead."

You leave the city and drive far out into the stretching countryside. Jake's got his head hanging out of the window, perched on his folded arms with his glasses clutched in his fingers. Weird kid…. You've been around a lot of guys in your life, what with your line of work and such. But this kid is one of a kind.

You've never met anyone quite like him. His mood flip-flops at the drop of a hat. You watched him go from eager to angry to nervous to focused within the span of ten seconds while you were up on that fire escape. The only thing you can think about him is that he's cute.

Cute with his strange combination of seriousness and silliness and those slightly bucked teeth that remind you of John a little. You think back to when you watched him fire that gun. He looked like he had been shooting people all his life with the way he balanced himself and took only a minute to get the perfect shot. One shot….

There was something glowing in his eyes when he pulled on that trigger.

Usually, you don't like to drag people into your personal business but this kid didn't seem like he was going to give up. You're not too sure what you're going to do with him now. Where you're going…you've only been there a couple times. They owe you a favor so you're sure you and Jake can get in and out without any problems.

Would probably be a good idea to fill him in on what he's getting into, though.

"Hey," you say, reaching over to nudge Jake on the shoulder. He pulls himself from the window and rolls it back up, putting his glasses back on before he looks at you. Before he does, though, you can see just how narrow his eyes actually are. Thin and sly like he's got something evil lurking inside him somewhere. Those coke-bottle lenses make his eyes look huge and innocent.

Nice disguise there….

"Yes?" he asks, smiling pleasantly at you.

"We're heading into gang territory," you tell him. "This is their turf and we gotta be cordial to their rules, okay?"

"Certainly," Jake says without missing a beat. Like you're his dad saying, 'We're going to the store now, but you're not allowed to touch anything, okay?' What planet is this guy from?

"You seem completely unnerved," you observe aloud, turning back to watch the road.

"Where else would we be going with an incapacitated man in the trunk?"

The sky is blue, Dirk, didn't you know?

You feel like laughing. But you just smile and shake your head a bit. This kid…. Cute little weirdo.

When you finally pull up to the warehouse, he's just jittery with excitement.

"Keep your cool," you remind him lowly as you go around to the trunk. "These guys don't need any reason to start a fight."

"Of course, Sir," Jake says, calming himself but still gripping the gun slung around his shoulders like he'll fire it at the first person who looks they'll cause trouble. He keeps calling you 'Sir.' Normally, you'd tell him to stop but it's another one of those unique things about Jake that you're steadily finding endearing.

You walk with Jake to the warehouse entrance, dragging the dead meat along. It's a bit of a walk because Miss Serket likes the dramatic feng shui of being a mob boss. Not that you can blame her, but you're sick of touching this guy.

When you finally get to the darkest, coldest corner, hazed in orange lamplight where she's got her goons all crowded around her, Serket looks you over.

"Good to see you again, Mister Strider," she says. Hisses, really. You're sure she's part spider or something. No woman can be that wicked and still be human.

"Likewise," you say. "I brought you a gift." You put your foot on the guys back and shove him towards her.

Her ice-blue eyes scope the body, a twinge of disgust curling at the corner of her mouth when he groans.

"Tell me again how you wanted this?" she says, getting off her chair and circling the man with a perusing observance.

"I thought torture was _your_ forte," you say, folding your arms across your chest. "Just work your magic."

"No special requests?" She turns her grin to you and smirks. "I know there's some creative things rolling around in that skull of yours. I've seen them in action."

"Thought you wanted to keep my indulgence of your sadomasochistic fetishes under wraps, Vriska," you sneer back. "But by all means, feel free to jam a spiked dildo up his ass if you think that's what'll do it for you."

The flurry of motion happens in a split second and ends with Vriska's clawed hand aiming for your throat, your knife drawn and Jake standing between the both of you with his gun in her face.

Every goon in the shed's got their weapon pointed at him.

You can't see his eyes but when he speaks, you hear that evil you suspected earlier.

"This is all good fun," comes the dark murmur, "but for everyone's sake, I humbly suggest we return to our original business."

There's an unsteady silence and everyone's watching Vriska to see if she'll strike. But her snarl melts into a pleased grin and she relaxes. Every weapon lowers. Jake brings his down last.

"You've got yourself a cute little puppy here, Strider," she drawls, turning her back to him and retreating. "Go take him home where he won't make a mess on my carpets. I'll take care of your friend here."

She kicks the man on the floor as she passes him.

"Want pictures?" she asks.

"Just a list," you say. "Keep me posted."

"Done. Now get the fuck out of here, I have flesh to peel."

You put your hand on Jake's shoulder and walk with him out of the warehouse.

There aren't any words between you as you make the long drive back. You're only thinking about how you're going to get the blood stains out of your trunk.

That bubbly mood Jake had is gone. You were honestly expecting him to snap right back as soon as you got him out of there. But he's still looking cruel and lethal.

You furrow your brow a bit as you glance at him sidelong.

"If I offer you a drink will you smile?"

He turns his face to you and it takes a second but he grins.

"Only if you're offering more than one."

You can't help it; you laugh again.

Coming up=== Jake: You've never been very good with alcohol…makes you do things you shouldn't do in decent company….


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is Dirk and this is the first time you've let someone other than Dave into your apartment. But this Jake kid is the guy who just did your dirty work for you. You figure the least you could do was offer him a drink back at your place. Plus the way he jammed that gun into little-miss-spider's maw was rather impressive. Takes balls to do something like that.

Or blind naiveté. Either way, Mr. English deserves something from your private cabinet, not just the stock you keep behind the bar at work.

The promise of booze had put him in a better mood. For the rest of the way back, he regaled you with various anecdotes of his highschool days. John featured in several of them, which made you smile. You weren't very close with John but you knew how much he meant to your kid brother. And that was enough to make him one of the most important people in the world.

Plus, with the way you found your bro all cuddled up with him when you stopped by the old Egbert House earlier…. Well, you may be getting old, but you're not any less perceptive. Hell, you knew something was up when Dave marched the kid into your office a month or so ago for a lovely reunion. It was easy to tell. Dave was trying so hard not to smile.

You're happy for him.

"Mister Strider?"

You blink and glance sidelong at Jake who's looking pleased and peachy from his spot in the passenger seat.

"Sorry," you say. "That was rude of me."

"'S alright," Jake says. "Wasn't much but self-indulgent drivel besides."

"Still…. We're here."

You park the car in the back lot and the two of you head inside. It's a pretty swanky place you landed some years back when business suddenly boomed for you. When you walk into the lobby, you hear Jake give a low whistle and watch from the corner of your eyes as he gazes around in wonderment. It's like you just took him to Disney World for the first time or something.

You punch in your code in the elevator and it goes all the way up to the penthouse where you've been living ever since Dave graduated and moved himself out.

"Cripes, Strider…."

"I promise I'm not trying to show off and be a pretentious asshole," you tell him.

"No, no, not at all!" He jogs a few steps from where he had frozen in amazement to join you at the door as you unlock it. "Still, I might have to invite myself over more often to compensate for my neglected concept of modern architecture."

"It's pretty sweet, innit?" You push the door open and gesture for him to enter before you. He smiles and inclines his head in a small semblance of a bow before passing you.

You flick the lights on an illuminate the space. It's large and riddled with robot paraphernalia and various Japanese weapons mounted on the walls, all in a sort of artful catastrophe. The floors are clear, at least. You gesture over to where the sofa is and invite him to sit.

"What's your poison?" you ask, walking over to your bar. Yeah, you have your own. It was actually a gift from your best friend Roxy because she could not, for the life of her, stop drinking, ever. Still, you couldn't knock her perfect taste in excellent booze.

"Ooh, I'd fancy a scotch on the rocks, if you got it." You heard the muffled thump of him jumping onto the couch and bouncing a couple times.

"Pretty steep for a kid like you," you say, making it for him regardless.

"Oi, I'll not have that," he chides. You can hear the smile in his voice, though. "Whiskey is a gentleman's beverage. I've practically been nursed on it."

"Your mom must've been pretty hard up on the buzz juice then," you say, bringing the glass over to him after pouring one for yourself. You're much more of a bourbon man yourself. Jack Daniel's been your longtime companion.

"Oh, no," Jake says, after thanking you for the glass. "Didn't have a mother. Well, at one time I did. But I was adopted. That stickly old bastard Lord English raised me on his own cruelty and mangrit and I've not escaped without my share of it."

You sit down in the armchair directly across from him and rest one ankle on your knee. The ice in Jake's glass rattles as he sips at it, his green eyes staring straight into yours as if he can see right through your shades.

"That so?" you ask. "A Lord? They still pander around with the aristocracy over in the motherland then, mh?"

"Indeed, Sir," he says. "Lord English was a bitter old man, unable keep a happy bride, much less sire a child of his own. So I became his heir by happy chance." Jake shook his head and snorted, bringing the glass back to his lips.

"Pardon me if I don't quite buy it, your happiness in the situation."

"If you did, you'd be a fool," Jake says. "I've absolutely no affection for the man. Not his methods of childrearing nor his ideals in politics. I do, however, have deep appreciation for the instilment of character he bestowed upon me, whether intentional or not."

"And what would that be?" you ask, genuinely curious.

"Bullheadedness." Jake's grinning at you. And it's not that goofy kid smile you've seen before. It's wild and twisting like jungle vines in the depths of those forest-green eyes: mysterious and dangerous. "And the value of not showing one's cards to all players at once."

You can't help the smirk that slides across your lips. He finishes off his glass and sets it down on the coffee table in front of him.

"Sounds like a dangerous combination," you say.

"It can be," Jake says. "Of course, after moving here and being in the company of what friends I have, the darker parts of such tenets are a bit lost in the day-to-day." You get up and go to the bar, fetching the bottle of Chivas Regal and topping off Jake's empty glass when you return. He thanks you and continues. "It's nice to forget my thorny past and its complications. I've found more of myself in their company than I ever did stifled in that manor."

"It's because they love you."

He looks up at you, a genuine bafflement in his eyes. It's makes his eyebrows all scrunched and the tilt of his smile a little lopsided. Suits him better than that sneer he was sporting earlier, in your opinion.

"You think?"

"Absolutely," you tell him, finishing up your own glass and putting it down. "Love is a catalyst for growth, a natural kind. It lays the paths where your heart truly wants to follow."

Jake blinks at you, an eyebrow going up.

"For such a rugged and stoic chap as yourself, you're quite the romantic, Strider." He smiles at you: this is a kind one.

"Don't get me wrong," you say, somehow manage to keep your face from coloring to the sudden flutter of your pulse, "I've been in the sex trade my whole life. Plugs like that are baseline in the lexicon."

"Yes, but you weren't trying to sell me a lapdance," Jake points out. You give one laugh, a short bursting exhale where you shake your head and look away from him.

"For such a goofy looking kid, you're quite sharp," you tell him.

"Never show all your cards at once, remember?" He quietly continues to drink as you turn and gaze out at the cityscape from your window-wall.

You've never met someone so dynamic before in your life. Some people like to tell you that you're an enigma, but you think that you're an open book compared to this guy. Jake is a fascinating guy, though. You definitely could see yourself hanging out with him more, if only to try and understand how that brain inside of him works.

So you're going to make him an offer he's not going to refuse.

"By the way, Jake," you start off, refilling his glass once again when he puts it down, "I was very impressed with the way you handled the situation back at the warehouse."

He beams, pride just glinting off those slightly bucked teeth.

"Well, thank you, Sir!" Jake raises his hand in a sort of toast, looking pleased with himself. "Another benefit from Lord English's guidance: never lower your guard when in another's territory."

"A lesson well learned," you say. "I was wondering if you'd be interested in doing some work for me."

He smiles at you, inclining his head just so as he drinks too show that he's listening.

"I'm going to Amsterdam in a couple weeks. Usually on business trips, I bring a bodyguard along with me but this year, my go-to guy is on vacation. I hadn't yet found a replacement and I thought I'd go ahead and ask you."

Jake's eyebrows almost vanish into his hairline, they go up so high.

"You're asking for me to go to Amsterdam with you?"

"To De Wallen. For about a week."

"As a bodyguard," he says, answering his own unspoken question. "Do you often get assaulted on your trips?"

"There have been a couple of occasions," you say with a shrug. "For one reason or another. Honestly, I enjoy the company, too. Traveling alone is just a bummer."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't mind keeping you company on your excursion to the Netherlands," Jake says, grinning wide. "Consider your offer accepted."

You find yourself grinning back.

"Cool."

"Let's drink on it!"

You chuckle and pour for him yet again, filling your own glass afterwards.

"You sure can hold your liquor," you say after the gentle clink of your glasses together fades into silence.

"It's a ruse," Jake says, shaking his head. "It's going to hit me like a ton of bricks in a moment."

Dirk: Be the kid with impending brick-head.

You are now starting to feel the buzz. Your name is Jake English and what were you thinking? You were thinking you'd show off, that's what. Scotch, you said. Practically nursed on it, you said.

Yes, well, that's all well and good, but despite whatever impression you were trying to give off, the truth is that you're about as lightweight as they come. Sure, you have a pretty sturdy build. You're no waif like John but neither are you the buff and chiseled visage that is Dirk Strider. And your alcohol tolerance has always sucked.

Usually you limit yourself to one good nick and then stay happy in your gentle booze-haze while the others around you get plastered. It's a practice you've kept for a while.

But you were nervous. No, more like excited.

Back at the warehouse, you kept a close eye on Strider as he worked his brief negotiations (the other, eye, of course, was on that daunting mafia wench). The dichotomy of Dirk Strider was really something to behold. You'd seen him at his most tender, watching from the doorway as he put his hand to his brother's face and listened to him whisper. And you watched when that love he had so reverently extolled earlier was translated into wrath.

Not a blind rage, but a passion with goal and security. He threw that sleazy sod to certain death without batting an eyelash but simultaneously managed to dissociate himself from the twisted allure of a bloodied vengeance. Maybe some people would call that cowardice—his refusal to exact justice on his own behalf. But you didn't see it that way. You found it brave.

Because Strider didn't need to hold on to his pride, he needed to protect his brother. And that's exactly what he did. He put his love for his brother above everything else.

Frankly, thinking about it now as the flood of heat from the whiskey warms you from head to toe, you found the whole gesture dazzlingly attractive. Somehow, Strider managed to wield his love with dignity and come out looking more powerful than ever.

God, this man is extraordinary.

And he just asked you to accompany him to a different continent. For a whole week, even. It may just be the slosh of good scotch in your brains, but that sounds like a proposition if you've ever heard one.

You've never been so instantly attracted to a person as you have towards Dirk Strider. And your inebriated inhibitions are falling away and giving rise to impulse.

You blink slowly a few times and then pull your glasses off, folding them up and hanging them off the front of your shirt.

"What about you?" you ask him. "Got the knock in your head yet?" He laughs. It's a short, clipped chuckle. You haven't heard any other kind of laughter from him yet. But it suits him, you think.

"Not much," he says. "Maybe a little."

"Here," you say, getting to your feet, "stand up, Strider. Put your glass down."

"Are we gonna dance now?" He laughs, but he's still doing what you asked, looking at you like you're just a child he's humoring. Which you basically are.

"Close!" you say, rounding the coffee table to stand right in front of him. "I wanted to see for myself if you're good in a tussle." You put your fists up and give him your best fighting smirk.

"Seriously?" He reaches out to nudge you on the forehead and you jump back, only stumbling a bit. "You are two minutes away from tipping over on your ass and you wanna strife?"

"Fisticuffs are the only way for to communicate true feelings of gentlemanly regard!"

"You don't honestly believe that."

"It doesn't matter if I do or not," you say. "It's what I want to do."

"Is it?" He's just standing there with his hands on his hips, smirking at you. "Can't wait until you're actually sober?"

"You're here now and so am I; that's good enough for me."

"Right." He shakes his head and turns. "Well, maybe I should make it so you're home now and not about to make poor drunken decisions."

Evilly, you think to yourself that the poor decision was on his part: underestimating you in your intoxicated state and thinking you're not as much of a threat. You launch yourself at his back. Of course, he notices, but doesn't dodge in time and you both go crashing down to the floor, his head bumping the sofa cushion.

You shift your weight off of him long enough for him to turn a bit but then you pin him right down to the floor. His glasses were knocked astray in your assault. You're now privy to the sight of Dirk Strider's eyes.

They're orange.

The color shocks through you and comes to rest somewhere in your middle as your slightly sweaty palms clutch at his wrists. There is a slight alarm in those eyes, but then it fades to a dull shade of mild vexation.

"Satisfied now?" he asks, the amused exasperation clear in his tone. You narrow your eyes.

No, you're not satisfied. Not yet.

Slowly you lean one direction, your mind dizzy with the swell of alcohol, and put your face near his neck. Your farsightedness isn't helping your cause of wanting to look at him. He's wearing a simple white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up around his elbows; the fabric tickles your lips a bit as you dip your head towards his collarbones.

You take a slow inhale. You don't have the extensive lexis to accurately describe just what he smells like, steadily becoming drunk off your arse and all, but you can easily recognize that he smells good. Really good. Warm and musky and irresistible.

Which is why you put your mouth to his skin and breathe.

Below you, Strider tenses, his fingers gripping around your hands that hold him down. Your cheek grazes the skin of his neck and as you settle yourself, your hips easily come to rest against his.

"Jake," he says lowly, the words humming through your mouth and into your belly, "you need to get off me now."

You growl at him. It's the frustration in you, a mindless desire and the barrier of his dissent. And when the sound escapes your lips and you hear him gasp just a bit—obviously, he wasn't expecting that—you clamp your teeth over his throat and bear your hips harder against him to keep him down.

You're not leaving.

Whether deliberately or unconsciously, you don't know, but you begin to rock your hips against him. It feels good, that's all that matters. The thick slide of khaki on denim and the pressure and heat of him. He even shifts just a little beneath you so the blunt of his thigh gives you the perfect length to grind against. It pushes against you just so and a low whine peals out of your chest.

Your tongue slips out and draws over the throbbing vein in his neck; it's a taste that sends a deep cadence in your own chest, heavy and hot. There's a hitch in his breath and it's your instant sign to relinquish one of your gripping hands on him to push the shirt up his middle.

His muscles ripple beneath your calloused fingers and the slight damp of your palm catches against him every now and then. Eventually, you draw your hand all the way up to his heart, and there it stays, knowing the furious secret that hides under warm flesh and bone. What a rhythm….

Your move your hips to it like it's a tribal tattoo, pushing, rocking against him while the remnants of the shocked color that ran you through begin to grow, curling inside you and tightening the pressure.

Everything feels so good. Your lips are sucking heedlessly at his neck.

And then he coughs—clears his throat.

It's when you realize he's gone still as stone beneath you. The heat vanishes from you and you take yourself from him, scrambling back until your spine hits the coffee table. He sits up and rolls his shoulders like they're stiff and then picks up his shades, setting them right on his face.

Before he can say anything, you're on your feet and out of there.

You don't care that he was your ride there. You'll call a cab if you have to. But you're not staying. Not to face the shame and horror that comes with holding down a man twice your age who you've suddenly found yourself completely enamored with.

Gentleman indeed…. You're nothing but the same scum you put a bullet through earlier.

Coming Up=== Dirk: Take Mister "Fisticuffs" his rifle back. Lay everything on the table while you're at it….


	3. Chapter 3

Your name is Dirk and you don't know what the hell you're doing.

Well, no, you know exactly what you're doing. It's just so fucked up and weird that you're going to just blame it on your own ignorance because even though that's not a viable excuse, it's one that you're giving yourself.

You're lying on the couch, where it's still warm from where Jake was sitting, and you've got your pants undone and your hand around your cock as you close your eyes and think.

You replay what just happened over and over, in short shocks of memory the scene rolls over you like the gentle shivers down your spine. You remember the heat of him, warm and sweating against your neck, your chest, your hips. His breath…hot against your throat like his tongue on your pulse and his teeth pushing at your skin.

Jesus Christ, you haven't been this turned on in years.

You slowly pump your hand up and down around your cock, feeling the fever in your face and how it flares in the memory of him pinning your hands down, grinding against you. Pleasure is coiling in the depths of your gut, tightening like a grip inside of you as it tugs you closer to the edge.

You're searching for it, the final tug that will yank you over. Your thumb teases over the head of your cock and you take the memory further than it happened. You imagine that hot, slicked tongue in your mouth, between your teeth. You replace your fingers on your dick with his. And he whispers in your ear in that lovely British accent of his….

_You like that, don't you, Strider?_

_Like being pushed down under me._

_Open your mouth and tell me…._

_Tell me how you like it._

"A-ah…."

You push your hips up into your hand and tremble as you come hard.

You're left with heavy breath, sticky fingers and a looming sense of 'fuck, now what?' weighing in your thoughts. Should you be feeling guilty about this? Should you? The kid is like the same age as your kid brother. That's supposed to creep you the fuck out, isn't it?

Nope. It doesn't creep you out. It turns you on. And _that's_ what creeps you out.

You groan and get up, trying to fix yourself up again with only one hand before plodding into the kitchen to wash your fingers off.

Since when are you a cradle robber? It's not like being sexually attracted to someone half your age is illegal, since Jake is definitely an adult. But, Jesus…. He's an adult but only just. You've been pretty adamant about sticking to people in your age group. They tend to be a bit more sensible and grounded. Last thing you needed was some dipshit bratling making your life more complicated than it needed to be.

But, hell, when was the last time you even had a truly satisfying relationship with someone? You don't even remember. Maybe it's just because you can't be bothered to try and think of it, but that's a good enough indicator for you that maybe you should branch out a bit. You and your last girlfriend split after it became more apparent to the both of you that you were a lot more interested in work than spending time with her. Which was sad, 'cause she was a sweetheart. She deserved better, though.

But what about you?

Do you deserve better? And what does that even mean? Are you suddenly going to plunge headfirst into some half-desperate nonsense and start boning some kid you just met today that you're beginning to suspect has the symptoms of split-personality disorder? Is that what this is? Everything so far just been too comfortable to be interesting, you kinky fuck?

You shake your head and roll your eyes at yourself.

Fuck no.

God, Dirk, chill the fuck out.

The guy was grinding on you because he was halfway to the Land of Scotch and Merriment and you were the nearest piece of fine manflesh to rub on. Hey, you understand. It was hot; you got off. End of story. You shake your head again. Leave it to you to blow every fucking thing out of proportion. You're getting ridiculous in your old age, not that you haven't done so gracefully.

Today's been just psycho to begin with. From beginning to end. And, oh wait, you haven't slept in about 48 hours because of all of the shit that happened to set this whole story up to begin with.

Fucking go to bed you brainless halfwit. Figure out your shit tomorrow when you actually have the capacity to do so.

You wander to your room, pull your shirt off and crash. You're asleep within minutes.

Dirk: Be Future Jake English.

You are now Jake English. It's the tomorrow to the day that you shot a man in the leg for one of the most deplorable crimes known to humanity. They should make parades in your honor. But not right now. Not when you have a glass-smashing headache splintering through your temples.

The evening sunlight is gentle as it sneaks through the slats of your blinds. Not gentle enough in your opinion. You slowly get out of bed and stumble out of the room you've been sharing with Gamzee. You only vaguely register that the figure sleeping in Gamzee's bed is, in fact, _not_Gamzee. But that's about as far as your interest goes.

You shuffle down the hallway and into the living room, your eyes shut all the while. You've no patience for this hangover nonsense, even if it is mostly dulled by this point. The nap helped, but your pulse is still hammering like a bell through you.

"Want some dinner, Jake?" Rose asks you as you stumble past her.

"Please," you mutter.

"Whoa, hold up there." She grabs you and your eyes open to realize you almost walked straight into the corner of the threshold to the kitchen.

"Thanks for that," you sigh. She chuckles gently and then guides you over to the kitchen table and puts the kettle on. "Where's John?" you ask her.

"Out. Grocery shopping with Kanaya and Gamzee. They're replenishing our very poorly stocked kitchen."

"Oh, bollocks, I was going to ask them to pick up some French bread for me," you sigh, running your fingers through your hair.

"I'll text them. I'm sure they're still there. You know how distracted Gamzee gets in grocery stores." Rose takes her phone out of her pocket and starts fiddling with it. You groan, stretching your shoulders a bit before picking a pot of violets on the kitchen windowsill to stare at.

They're called Viola Rebecca, yellow-white and purple and sugar-shimmery. You like looking at them because the petals sparkle in the sunlight. Flowers that sparkle…it's some sort of magic. They're often the focal point you choose when sitting at the kitchen table for tea: something lovely and serene to help you think of quiet that's not often found in this house.

Last night….

Ugh, you don't want to think about it.

But, apparently the look has already darkened your features because Rose has raised an eyebrow at you. You look at her, pleading in silence for her to spare you.

"You've known me how long, English?" she asks, with a quiet smirk.

You sigh. She gets up and goes to where the kettle is boiling and starts fixing you a cuppa.

"To the point," you say, leaning back in your chair, "I got wicked smashed and proceeded to have a rutting fest on Strider the Elder."

Her smirk deepens, the eyebrow rising even higher.

"Now, see here," you say quickly, bolts of panic striking straight to your stomach.

"Calm down, Jake, I just found it amusing, that's all. Don't worry, your mistakes are safe from my dalliances in fiction."

You breathe a sigh of relief. Last think you need to do is give Rose material for that nonsense she writes. You've briefed a few pages of her manuscripts before. Well written, indeed, but rather dubious content, if you say so.

"Certainly does put you in a bit of a bind, doesn't it?" she says as she brings tea over to you. Your favorite blend of Darjeeling. Black; two sugars. She knows you well. You thank her and take the tea as she returns to the stove and pulls out a plate from the oven. You look at it with longing as she sets it in front of you.

"We all took turns tonight," Rose says. "Made your favorites. It was John's idea. He wanted to thank you."

"That boy…," you sigh. "His generosity slays me sometimes." You dig right in to the bangers and mash, vowing to yourself that you're going to make sure John knows how grateful you are for his friendship. One way or another….

"So, you're feeling a deep sense of guilt for your actions last night?" Rose presses.

"Like you wouldn't believe," you say around a mouthful of potatoes. "I've never done such an outrageous thing in my life."

"Must be a sign."

"A sign of what?" you ask, incredulous.

"If the man has grit enough to get you going after a few licks of scotch then he must be just your poison, Jake," Rose says, patting you on the shoulder. "You do like him, of course."

"Rather," you admit, blushing lightly. "I just don't know how I can face him now, Rose. If I ever had a hope of maybe getting into anything with him, it's surely dashed now due to my inappropriate antics."

"Well, possibly," Rose says, leaning back and looking thoughtfully towards the ceiling. "If you let your regret bar you from communication, then that will certainly be the case. I suggest you speak with Mister Strider about the incident and offer your apologies. Then things might not be as hopeless as you think."

You sigh and smile at Rose. She smiles back and nudges your tea a little closer.

"You'll be alright. You're a gentleman at heart behind all your awkwardness and shoot-first-panic-later attitude."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," you say, rolling your eyes.

"I will always have faith in you, Jake."

You chuckle gently and take up your mug again, looking back towards the violets cast in the orange glow of the sunset.

There's a knock at the door. You turn your head towards the living room and raise an eyebrow. Rose is already rising out of the chair, patting your arm, before she goes to answer it. You return to your tea and delicious food and flowers, happy to stop thinking for a few minutes. But it doesn't last long.

Dirk Strider…. He really…. He really is magnificent. Just…everything. Behind all the head-knocking self-directed anger you're nourishing, you're thinking about Mister Strider. You're thinking about how you saw him smile quietly when you were driving home. You're thinking about the command of his voice when he spoke with that mob boss. You're thinking about firmness of his body beneath you as you pressed down on him.

Rose would probably tell you that your sudden interest in such an older man stems from some psycho-sexual subliminal nonsense that has to do with you and your 'father' but you think that's disgusting and shut down that train of thought immediately.

Point is that Mister Strider is a sturdy and smoldering epitome of the qualities you want in yourself. You could worship him. You wouldn't because that would be silly, but the thought wriggled at least once that you worship him another way…. And you guess you tried, last night, but failed due to many mistakes, the first of which was looking at him.

Those eyes just destroyed you.

"Jake? You have a guest."

You turn around in your chair. Dirk Strider is standing behind Rose with your Saiga-12 on his shoulder.

Oh, fuck, you forgot your gun.

You swallow hard. Rose gives you an encouraging smile and invites Strider in.

"Can I get you anything to eat, Dirk?" she asks him.

"No, thank you, just some privacy," he says. His voice makes the food in your stomach somersault and you put down your fork.

"Certainly." She turns and leaves. Dirk sits in the chair that she'd vacated.

"Brought your baby back," he says, putting the shotgun on the table.

"Thank you," you choke out. You take a moment to clear your throat. "Thank you very much."

And then the silence settles. The quiet you knew would come. It's pressing on your head and your heart and you look to your window violets for solace but they do nothing for you because your ears are ringing and your face could fry eggs.

He's there. He's there sitting next to you, breathing the air in your space and you just _know_ that those plasma orange eyes are staring you right in the face. You look at your knees that are pressed together. Your legs in your stupid skull boxer shorts…. What are you? You're a college boy. A young pup just out of your first year of uni who likes waving around guns and frotting on men. Granted, that last one is a relatively new hobby, but hey, it doesn't do much to boost your credentials in Strider's eyes, you know it.

You take breaths as quietly as you can and worry your bottom lip with your teeth. And then you decide to man up.

You lift your head and look him in the face.

"I'm sorry," you tell him. A bit more loudly than you really intended. You wince. He's still as stone. "Sloshed or not, there was no excuse for my behavior last night and I am truly, very sorry for what I've done. If you could ever forgive me, I swear I would ask nothing else of you ever again."

You sit in that silence for a few seconds that stretch like hours. You're noticing every detail. The slight upturn of his collar on the left side from where the gun flipped it. His shirt is cotton. Pale pink. Makes his skin glow…. You rattle yourself and focus doubly hard on the reflection of yourself in his shades. He still isn't smiling. You wish you could see his eyes….

"Jake, look," he finally says. You're still holding your breath. "Forget about last night, alright?" He rolls his shoulders and leans back, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tapping one out. "You didn't do any harm, alright? So I'm gonna pretend that everything you just said never came out of your mouth. Let's start over: hey, Jake, you forgot your gun last night."

And now he's looking at you like he expects you to keep up the charade. But your eyes are narrowing. At first, his words placated you well and you were glad to know that he wasn't upset. There's something in your gut that's telling you wrong, though: there's something he's not saying. Something he's covering up.

Your keen intuition in these things has alternated between being a blessing and a curse and right now, you're not sure which one it is. You're not one to beat around the bush, so you just say it.

"Strider, just how angry have I made you?"

You watch as he puts the black cigarette between his lips and tilted his face towards the ceiling. There's a hickey on his neck. Your eyes shock open. You are locked onto the dark purple of it. It's a stain on his skin, dark like a plum. You love it….

"I'm not angry," he says softly. "I'm old. I'm worn out and stubborn and unwilling to gamble unless I already know I've got the odds in my favor." He looks back down again, taking the cigarette from his mouth. "You're a fascinating guy, Jake," he says. "Somehow manage to pull off that button-preciousness and rock a sick wickedness at the same time which—I will not lie—is an absolutely fucking sterling combination. But I'm gonna forget about last night because I don't know what the hell to do with it."

He's silent then, leaving you with more questions than answers. You go over everything he just said and try to dig out what he actually meant.

Okay so…he thinks you're attractive, you got that one. Well, that's nice, at the very least; you're still blushing. He's confused for some reason. Probably because he finds you attractive, but there's another edge to that sword. He finds you attractive…and he thinks he shouldn't be, probably. You don't know why. 'Old, worn out, stubborn, unwilling to gamble….'

Your eyes widen again.

He just told you to give up. That's what he said.

You shake your head back and forth.

"I'd rather you didn't," you say. "I'd rather you not forgive me than forget. I may have been a complete fool, but at least I was an honest fool." You reach out and take his hand and you watch as his lips press together. Careful, Jake…don't tread that line….

You squeeze gently and then put your other hand atop it.

"As first impressions go, that was probably one of the worst I've ever given, but I would hate myself for eternity if I let it be the only part of me you know. Please…please give me the chance to show you that I'm not a complete lummox."

He actually chuckles.

"Sorry, Jake," he says, taking his hand from you and ruffling your hair. "You're too young and reckless and I don't need that in my life."

You stop him before he pulls his hand away again, feeling a surge of that recklessness in you. You look him straight in the eyes and move his hand to your cheek, holding it there before you turn your head a bit. You put your lips to his wrist and inhale gently. You kiss there.

"Pardon my disrespect," you whisper against his skin, "but I think you're wrong. I think that you're trying to fit yourself into a stereotype that you don't belong in. I think you're not as old and unwilling as you think you are. I think some risk taking is just what you need to realize that."

You kiss him again. Just the tender spot by your mouth, but you think you might become addicted to that place. Your eyes flick back to his face. He's as unreadable as ever. But you see redness at the tips of his ears and count a victory for yourself.

"Give me one chance," you beg him. "Let me show you it's worth it to be who you want to be and not who people think you should be."

He watches you for a good moment, still and silent with just a slight part at his lips. There's something he wants to say but as you look at his mouth, you can only think about how nice it might be to slide your tongue into it…. You bet it's surprisingly soft….

You're jolted out of your fantasies by a gentle scratching at the side of your head. You close your eyes and lean into it, letting go of Strider's hand as you do.

"I'm not saying 'yes'," he says softly.

"That's fine," you tell him, brushing your lips against his thumbs as he pulls away and stands up. "You should keep yourself from saying 'no' by joining Gamzee, Karkat and I in our next paintball match. We've had a pretty good run so far but John's bailing out to spend more time with Dave this weekend so we're short." You smile up at him.

He scoffs and shakes his head a bit.

"Fine," he says.

"I'll treat you afterwards," you add, watching him depart the kitchen.

"You better," he calls back.

"I'll pick you up," you say. "This Saturday at noon."

"Better bring me a fuckin' corsage." The door shuts.

You laugh. Your smile is so wide you feel like it's breaking your face. Instead of going back to your food, though, you pick up the cigarette that Dirk left on the table. You look at it for a while, pondering.

It's basically a date, isn't it? Might as well be. Even if he didn't technically say 'yes.'

You put the cigarette between your lips and touch your tongue to the filter. Clove. Sweet and a little damp. You suck on it a little bit. Tastes like Dirk Strider….

Coming Up=== Jake: Reintroduce Dirk Strider to some of that youthful recklessness he's been suppressing. Become subsequently aroused.


	4. Chapter 4

Your name is Dirk and this shit sucks.

You're sitting in a doctor's office staring at the wall with your arms folded over your chest. Waiting. You're waiting. And you'll continue to wait. And it's not even like you're the one who's going to hate this waiting the most.

What about Dave? It's his body…his life. What about John? You don't know how well the kid's grown out of his crybaby antics since you last saw him from brathood but if John cries, then Dave will cry and Dave's already been crying—you could tell—and you don't need any more boys crying.

You just don't fucking need it.

You hate this place. You don't want to be here. The twisted thing is that you were the one who would've pitched hell if Dave didn't bring you along but you want to be here about as much as you want to take a bath in razor wire and lemon juice.

Your teeth are grinding and you are just burning holes in the wall across from you. You could probably break glass with the intensity of your stare if you tried hard enough.

You don't get time to try, though. Dave finally comes back, his shoulders slouched and his hands in his pockets.

You stand up and go to the door. He's not far behind.

You drive back in silence. Don't even put the radio on. He stares out the window the entire time, arms wrapped around his middle. The only words between you are when you bypass the complex Dave lives in and he just asks,

"Are we...?"

and you say,

"Yeah."

You take him to your place. It's mid-afternoon on a Wednesday. You'll not have long until you have to head down to Marionette and start the place going. Your loft is shady and cool, the blinds pulled down on the windows that make up the western wall. The sun streams through on the sides where there are gaps between the shades.

The afternoon fills your apartment with the perfect atmosphere to take a nap in. But you won't be able to. Not today.

Dave kicks his shoes off and tucks himself into the corner of the couch, bringing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around the nearest pillow.

His body language says so much more than anyone really realizes. He's got two ways to communicate, this kid: silent as ash in an urn or yammering nonstop to the point of embarrassing hilarity.

Dave doesn't sit like that.

You plop down next to him, light a cigarette and pass it to him. When he takes it, his fingers are shaking. Only a little, but you notice. You always notice.

Dave takes drags like he's taking his first breaths after coming out of the water. That cigarette is gone in seconds. He doesn't ask for another. You'd light up another for him but Dave doesn't really smoke; he hates the taste.

Always been a sweet-toothed baby.

You get up instead and go to the kitchen, bringing back your bag of Doritos you keep rolled up in the pantry at all times. This one is still mostly full. Not that bags of chips are ever mostly full; two thirds of them are always just air.

You exchange the cigarette butt for the bag and flick it into the nearest ashtray while Dave rolls the bag open.

"How long is it gonna take?" you asked, settling on the couch again. There's barely any space between the two of you. Your arm is slung at the backrest.

"Few weeks," Dave mumbles around his mouthful of Cool Ranch.

"John?"

"He knows." Dave takes another chip and stares at it listlessly. "He asked to go. I told him to stay home."

"Hmm."

Your stomach feels like a pit of nuclear sludge: heavy and burning with ache but nauseatingly empty. Not a bit of it shows on your face, though.

"Don't be scared, Bro."

You turn to look at Dave. He's let slack the bag of chips in his hand and stares you right in the eyes. Shades or not, you can tell.

Maybe your face isn't as unreadable as you thought it is.

Not to Dave anyway. Not to the kid who's watched you for his entire life.

You reach over and put your hand on the side of Dave's face, something you've done for years and years. You don't say it aloud. You have before, but only the first time. The meaning has never changed.

"I know," Dave says softly. You shift your hand and ruffle it gently through his hair. You can see his eyes when they close. You watch his chin dimple when he presses his teeth together and swallows hard. An impulse flashes through you to call up Vriska and ask if she's done yet so you can help lend a hand.

But instead you keep stroking Dave's hair.

"You're a hero, little man," you tell him. "No matter what you or anyone else thinks."

Dirk: Be future Jake English again.

Your name is Jake and it should be illegal for Dirk Strider to eat ice cream cones.

You are having the hardest time focusing on the conversation that's going on around you because you keep getting caught off guard by that pretty pink tongue in Strider's head that probably tastes like the coffee ice cream he's been licking at for the better part of the past half hour. Sweet and bitter and wonderful….

Since when have you become such a dizzy dreamer? Jiminy Crickets….

You shake your head and snap yourself back to the real world, back to the comforting chill of the air conditioner as you sit at the counter of the Lofty Pursuits Soda Shoppe. Karkat and Gamzee are retelling of the time Dave came over and gave Karkat a lapdance.

You try and think back to closer memories to distract yourself.

You and the other blokes just came from a rousing game of paintball whereby you all ended up dirty and sweaty and are now enjoying your traditional post-game treat. Dirk seemed a bit distracted at first. Even when you picked him up, he didn't have much to say. But once you were about five minutes in, you yanked him behind a pile of tires and bullied your way in.

"What's the chop, Strider?" you asked him. "I know you're new at this but it's not like there's much to it! Whatever's got your knickers in a twist, just plaster it to those grubby faces 'cross the way and lay into them!"

Dirk cracked a quizzical grin at you then, but it began to blend into this sort of predatory smirk: subdued, but you could almost taste the danger that charged the air.

"Sounds like a plan."

You were crouched at the perfect angle to watch the fire blaze in those orange eyes; you caught the gap behind the shades with the summer sun glowing in his gaze. Then he lifted that gun, put it to his shoulder and unleashed hell.

It wasn't until he dodged from behind the barrier you were using for cover that you snapped out of your daze and picked up your own weapon, returning to the onslaught.

Your team won that match.

You have this ever-growing list of all the different ways that Dirk Strider is actually a sex god. You're starting to wonder if it's ever going to end. And you keep thinking about kissing him. His skin is probably warm and it looks so smooth.

Maybe you're putting the cart in front of the horse, but you like thinking about the way you touched him earlier in the week... You can only keep hoping that maybe you'll get to do it again.

"I'm sure you woulda been proud of your bro," Gamzee is saying, grinning around a mouthful of rainbow cream. "Boy puts the 'ass' in 'fantastic'."

"That's not how you spell that, dipshit," Karkat snaps, quite red in the face.

Dirk just smiles, looking rather pleased.

"Well, of course he does," he says. He pauses to tongue at the diminishing curve of icecream—first class felony, you think—and then adds, "he learned from the best, you know."

You're a second too late to realize that your lungs are empty and start coughing. Only Dirk looks at you in some sort of concern.

"You mean," Karkat dares, "you were a stripper too?"

Those words aren't doing anything healthy to your head. Gee manitly... You thought Dave swinging his hips was something to write home about—hell, when Karkat found himself head-over-heels, you couldn't quite blame him—but picturing Dirk doing such things has pitched your sanity off the face of the planet.

Striders aren't healthy, you've decided. Especially not for you. Especially not this one.

"You okay, Jake?"

"Fine," you rasp, pounding on your chest a bit.

"And, no, I wasn't a stripper," Dirk says, turning to talk to Karkat again. "But that doesn't do any damage to my dancing skills."

You all stay at the store a little while longer but the conversations kinda sail over your head. You're a bit wrapped up in the delusion of Dirk wearing hotpants and a cowboy hat.

Yep. You're all over that. They should crown you King of Picturing Dirk Strider in Hotpants and a Cowboy Hat. You would rule over your domain with virility, dedication and a sizable erection.

It's not particularly sizable at the moment, but give it some time and that may change.

On your way back (you have to take Dirk home since you took him from it in the first place) you're considering the merits of taking the plunge.

So you start slow. No need to jump in headfirst.

"You enjoyed yourself today then, Strider?" you ask, glancing at him sidelong. He chuckles.

"I did," he says. "I'm sure I mentioned it earlier but you were a bit preoccupied making baby-eyes at that cute soda jerk behind the counter."

"Wh-what!" The car swerves a bit, but you straighten out again (calmly). "No, that's not what I was doing at all!"

Dirk laughs again.

"I know," he says.

You scoff and roll your eyes.

"You should know better than to tease those with sincere intentions," you grumble.

"Those are the only people I _do_ tease."

"Rather…."

You're both quiet then, staring out your respective windows into the summer dusk. You sigh. Can't let the silence become a complacent thing: you have business to get to!

"So, er, that aside," you try again, "I was wondering if perhaps you wouldn't mind getting some dinner with me."

This silence in different. It's tense. And you stare right out of the windshield and pray that you're not about to get your heart stomped on.

"A date is what you're proposing here, right, English?" he asks, sounding chill and casual as ever. You take a deep breath (since it would be foolish to close your eyes).

"That's indeed what it is," you say.

"Sorry, but I'm not up for gallivanting about the town this evening."

Your heart sinks. Well…bollocks, there goes your good mood.

"Oh, well, can't blame a bloke for trying!" You're failing to actually feel as good as you're trying to sound.

"But, you know," Dirk continues, the timber of his voice actually reasonable—jeez, Jake, overcompensate, much?—"I would like to thank you for inviting me and then footin' the bill for that delicious ice cream."

There's a bubble of warmth swelling inside you. It's your hope. You're fond of it. You want to keep it forever. At this point, you're daft enough to want to name it and get someone to make some sort of graphic representation of it and then put it on a hoodie or something.

"Well, you're welcome," you say gently.

"No, more than that," Dirk says. "Not up for going out, but how about I make you dinner, instead?"

You've just named your hope Paige because that sounds like a precious name for your precious hope and it's taking the form of the wide grin that's stretching your cheeks.

"That sounds smashing."

Jake: Be future Dirk Strider.

You are now Dirk Strider a few hours from now. You're in your kitchen, putting dishes into the washer.

Jake English is currently in the shower, washing up. It's all quite platonic, of course. That's what you're telling yourself anyway. There was some push-pull flirting happening, of course. But that's fine. It's nice.

You're just washing off the remnants of beef stroganoff from plates when Jake comes out dressed in some of your clothes. They're actually a little tight on him. Not much by much; you're older and don't have any more growing to do, but apparently Mister English is much burlier than you were at that age. Or have ever been, really.

"Better?" you ask him as he takes a seat at the counter (you lack a table since you don't really have people over to entertain ever).

"Very much, thank you," he says. "Got a nasty bruise on my hip from where someone got me earlier."

"Ouch. Dodge a little quicker next time, eh?"

He chuckles. "Yeah, s'pose so. Thank you for dinner, also. It was wonderful; you're an excellent cook."

"Been making my own meals for years. Be a shame if I couldn't whip up something decent," you tell him.

"More than decent, if you ask me," Jake says.

"Didn't, but I appreciate it anyway." You wink at him. He blushes and gives you that derpy-sweet grin. You start up the dishwasher and walk over to lean on the counter. "I'd ask if you wanted dessert, but I think we took care of that."

"Oh, I dunno," Jake says, right as you realize what you've set yourself up for. You watch as he gets out of his chair and walks around the counter until he's standing about a foot from you. Electricity dances along your skin as you watch him. It tickles up your arms and spine and licks along the nape of your neck. "I think I can figure something out for dessert…."

"Cornball," you mutter.

"You think it's cute," he says. He slides his hand on top of yours. Such big hands…

"How perceptive of you."

"I notice things."

He stands behind you. You bet you wouldn't be able to slide a hand in the space between you. He's warm. You feel his breath on your neck, the slight brush of the jeans he's wearing as he shifts just a bit. He moves. The hand on yours is mirrored on the other side. He puts his lips to the back of your neck and breathes in, slowly.

"I notice how you smile when I act like an idiot," he whispers. It's hot on your skin, damp and fleeting. You scrape your teeth over your bottom lip and let your eyelids lower. "How still you get when you look into my eyes. It's like you're waiting for something…. But what…?"

His hips bump against you and you find yourself relaxing a little. Waiting indeed….

"Jake," you say softly.

"Should I stop?" The question is gentle against your ear. His fingers lace with yours and you grip them tight.

"You better not," you say, a laugh tacked to the end of it, all breath and promises of moans and you can't believe how you're just dissolving under this kid. How much you're loving it…. When he chuckles, it spills down your neck and into your shirt.

"Righto," he says. Every word is against you, hot and adding another pulse of lightning to the charge running through you. His chest is against your shoulders, hips trapping your own against the counter. He's gentle, but you know the threat. You know what's lurking behind those baby eyes and soft whispers.

And you want to see its face.

Too bad you can't; he's not letting you.

"I also noticed that you're worried."

That makes you stop for a minute. The good feelings diminish under the sudden reminder of Dave. Dave and his test results that you've done your best to put out of your mind for the past few days. You ungrip your fingers from his and slump forward just a bit, sighing.

It doesn't put him off, though. He moves his hands. Trails them all the way up your arms until he's wrapping them around your chest. He kisses you. Once, twice, against your neck. And again.

"I notice."

You sigh again. Not as harshly. This kid is something else.

"You want a medal?" you ask him.

"I'd like to know why," he says. His arms are tight around you, his kisses continue. All the way up to your hairline and back down again. You're gripping the counter now and trying not to arch back.

"Sounds boring," you say.

"Nope. No, not to me."

You're suddenly pulled, turned around and pinned to against the counter, still just as trapped, only now you can feel the definite press of him right against you. And his eyes. He's but a few inches shorter but his eyes seem on level with yours. He's not wearing his glasses.

You can see the beast he's hiding. And he's right: it makes you still as stone to watch it. You know you're pinned. You've never been so willing.

"My little bro," you find yourself saying. It's a whisper. Could you be scared? But why? Of what? Maybe you should be scared. You don't want to be. Especially not now.

Jake's eyes search yours. They flick back and forth and finally, he lets one hand go and takes the shades from your face. When he can see your eyes, he smiles.

"Whatever happens," he says, putting his arms back around you, secure, "I know you'll be Dave's champion." He leans in and kisses you. But it's against your cheek, at the corner of your mouth only because you may or may not have consciously turned your head to catch him straight on. You're not willing to recognize your own disappointment, but your heart still rattles in your chest.

Jake pulls back and smiles at you.

"You have more mangrit than anyone I've ever met. Don't be discouraged. And even if you are, you can just tap into some of my hope, I've got a lot of it." He grins. It's cute. You crack a smile at him.

"His test results will be back while I'm in Amsterdam," you say. "Guess I'm lucky to have my own personal vein of hope to tap into while I'm gone." You quirk an eyebrow at him. He smiles.

"I'll be the best companion you could ask for," Jake says.

"Better be."

You put your arms around his shoulders and pull him in.

More extraordinary by the day, this one. He's just a boy. A boy who wants to be your knight in shining armor but still keep the crown on your head.

Like no other….

"How's this doing for my getting into your bed tally?" he asks, muffled into your shoulder.

You laugh.

"How about we do some experimenting and see what happens?"

Coming Up=== Dirk: Discover how your ideas have been a bit backwards until now; let English take the lead.


	5. Chapter 5

Your name is Dirk and there is nothing much more beautiful than Jake English's cock. In the back of your mind, you're glad you're already lying down because you're just swooning at the sight of that magnificent erection. It hovers just a fraction from your lips; you can taste the heat and musk of him. Dear god….

You crane your neck, lifting your chin to let your tongue slip out. You will have it. That cock will be yours. And you'll laud it forever. But Jake shifts his hips and your prize is out of reach. Shamelessly, you find yourself whining. And at any other time, you'd never let such a thing grace your lips but you know what it does to Jake to hear you like that. It'll help bring that thing of beauty back to you.

You hear him chuckle. It's deep and sultry and _evil_. Straight up diabolical. And you _love_ it.

"Come now, Strider," he murmurs above you. His hand strokes down your cheek and then tilts your head back. You shift your focus from the throbbing erection just out of your reach to the flushed shit-eating grin of your young lover. "You know if you want it, you gotta ask nicely like a good lad."

"Jake," you moan. You slide your hands up his thighs slowly and watch the smolder in his dark green gaze. He likes hearing his name from you. You've watched the sound of it shiver along his spine and it happens again now. He's gorgeous. You knead the supple flesh of his ass as you look up at him, pleading.

"What is it, Dirk?" he asks you, trying to gain back some of the ground you snuck from him. It's a fantastic game you play with him. You'll never grow tired of it.

"Give me your cock," you say.

"Uh-uh," he teases. "Nicely, Strider. Nicely." His grip tightens on your chin like yours does on his ass.

"Please," you try again, happy to play this game. "Please let me suck your cock."

"Open up, lovely."

You're more than happy to. Jake shifts his grip to the headboard again to get better leverage while you wrap your lips around the purple head of his dick and suck gently at it. He moans, long and lovely and pushes his hips forward.

It some ungodly hour on the night and you and your beautiful boy are spending your last evening in Amsterdam together by celebrating. You got a call from Dave earlier that day. All his test results came back and he's completely clean. After letting out the longest held breath you've ever held, you went straight to Jake's side and kissed him.

One of those deep and lovely kisses. The boy may like to have the upper hand in bed but you know for sure now that he loves being kissed like no one's business. He'd let you kiss him all night if you weren't positive it would drive him nuts with sexual tension. When you finally broke the kiss you told him he was getting the shag of his life and if he wasn't naked in three seconds, you were going to set fire to every single article of clothing he owns.

Not that he needed convincing….

So now you're in the bedroom with the bay window open and the warm, summer breezes of Amsterdam rolling along your sweaty skin while you suck on Jake's cock and listen to him moan. And it's beautiful. You're so happy. You're so fucking hard. You think if you go at it long enough, you might be able to come just from this and that speak _volumes_ about how attractive you find Jake.

Later you're going to berate yourself for even letting a few days slip by without letting yourself fall prey to the amazement of Jake English and his insatiable, animalistic libido. But you have something more important to focus on at the moment.

Jake gasps quietly and his back arches, pushing his erection further into your mouth. Of course, the whole thing won't fit. You can't deep-throat from this angle, but you lavish attention at the head. Your tongue slips under the foreskin and traces slow circles around the tip. It's driving him crazy. You watch the muscles in his stomach flex and roll. God, he's gorgeous.

"You love that, don't you?" He's whispering to you. "You love my dick in your mouth. That shite makes you so horny; look at you."

Jake is also the one who's made you realize you love being talked dirty to.

"Filthy whore." He reaches behind himself to run straying fingers along your own erection. Yep. You're _so_ okay with being called a filthy whore. You give Jake a sharp suckle and look up at him, heavy lidded and heart pounding.

"Only for you, boy," you tell him.

"Unngh, Dirk…."

You kiss the slippery head of his erection before taking it in again and he starts thrusting into your mouth. Your hands tighten on his ass, pulling him forward in encouragement. The velvet heat of him slides back and forth across your tongue; the headboard of the bed knocks against the wall with each thrust.

"God, Dirk, I'm gonna come," he groans. Your eyes flick up and you beg him to. Dare him. Do it….

Jake's teeth dig into his bottom lip and he stills as his muscles clench. Your mouth is filled with hot, sticky English mess as he pants out for you to not swallow. Not yet…. Well, alright. He pulls away and a last spurt of cum splashes your lips but that's alright.

Jake shifts until he's straddling your hips instead of your face, looking shagged and red and pretty with that silly-happy smile on his face. You raise an eyebrow, wondering how long you're going to lay here with a mouthful of jizz and he just gives you this inebriated giggle.

It's cute. But only for a moment. Because then he's telling you to open your mouth and show him.

"Let me see," he says.

Your name is Dirk and you never realized how much you like being on the bottom.

Dirk: Be the guy on the top.

You are now hovering over your magnificent lover, smearing your spunk off his reddened lips. Your name is Jake and you're operating on wicked impulse. Having the strongest and most beautiful man bend to your filthy tongue and shiver beneath you is your biggest kink. That was the fastest you've ever come from oral in your life. Now that you know that the one thing you've been missing in your life is Dirk Strider, you're never going to relinquish him.

You want him. Body and heart and mind and soul. You've never wanted anything or anyone more desperately. He's perfect. And his orange eyes glow like something otherworldly: burning rings around beautifully engorged pupils as his lips part and his mouth falls open to show you the sloppy mess of your cum in his mouth.

Your heart stutters as his tongue swirls it about and he moans…just a little. You can feel his dick, hot and hard against your thigh. You're still trembling a little and this sight isn't doing much to help.

"Lovely," you exult him as you shift closer and seat yourself on his lap, pressing your chests together. His arms wrap around your middle and he grinds his hips up against you. You're still hard. Of course you are; you've only come once. Your virility has yet to meet its match and you intend to go as long as hard as you can this evening.

The sounds of the city fill the dark room with a soft hum as backdrop to this work of art, this beauty of Dirk Strider, toying with your cum on his tongue. You could kiss him. You do. And it's salty and sick and wonderful. Quick, though, because you have other ideas for what he obediently kept for you.

You pull back and exchange your tongue in his mouth for your fingers. When you take them back, there's a wet line connecting Dirk's lips with the mess on your habd and he leans for it, like he's desperate to have it back.

"You like it that much?" you ask him, smearing your saliva-muddled cum around your fingers as you stare into Dirk's eyes.

"It's not like it's my favorite or anything," he murmurs, leaning in so his breath slides along your lips, "but I _love_ the look on your face when you're watching me like I'm some porn star. Could watch that face all day and not have to eat for a year."

You smile. And as you lean in to kiss him again, you move your hand downward until you find the tight pucker of his hole. When you touch your slippery fingers to it, he gasps. It's a quiet hitch of breath. You hear more volume of it in the contraction of his pupils as you run your tongue along his bottom lip.

"Jake, are you seriously—"

"—going to fuck you until you're incoherent and can't remember anything but the name you're screaming at the top of your lungs?" He has that surprised and wonderful expression that you're starting to see more frequently from him. The one that sparkles with the slightest hint of fear. Fear of stepping out of his norm and into a place where he doesn't have control. But he always surrenders to you. And you adore him completely for it.

"Yes, I am," you promise him in a low growl. You put your lips to his ear as you press a finger inside of him. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't see straight. Until your lungs can't draw breath. I'll ram my dick into you over and over until you won't be able to sit down without having flashbacks to this very moment."

"Jesus…." His body arches into yours and you swirl your digit around the sweetly smooth flesh of Dirk's insides. His head falls back. You kiss his neck and suck at it, intending to leave the darkest hickey he's ever had. It'll stay for weeks if you work at it hard enough.

You push another finger in when he falls back against the pillows and gives you the opportunity to adjust your positions. You hitch one of his legs over your shoulder and straddle his other thigh. With his legs spread like that, you get the most perfect view of him: his weeping cock, rigid and twitching against the bed of dusty-blond pubes; the lovely curve of his balls resting against a lean and toned thigh; and his spasming hole sucking at your fingers in desperation.

You flick your gaze back to his face. On his side with his hands clutching at the sheets and his mouth open and panting. He's looking right at your face with his freckle-pale cheeks flushed and sweet like candy floss. There's a surge of heat that bubbles through you almost instantly at the sight. It comes out of your lips and sounds like,

"I love you."

For a moment, your world freezes and the good feelings vanish. You swallow hard and still yourself.

Yes, you just said that. You meant it. More than anything in your entire life. But you know—you just _know_—that he doesn't believe you. Not when you said it like that: for the first time ever, when you're going to fuck him for the first time ever.

You look to Dirk's eyes again afraid of what you'll find.

Jake: Be your beloved.

You are now the newly revealed darling of Jake English.

And the funny thing is that you actually _do_ believe him. Because for all the time you've known him—barely a month, if you're honest—the one thing that you know for sure about Jake English is that he never lies. Not to anyone and definitely not to you.

You're smiling. Laughing a little. Because it's precious, it really is. For all the wicked things he whispers to you and the way he pushes you down and threatens you with the best sex in the universe, he's still a sweet little boy. And that's probably why you love him too.

But you won't tell him that. Not now, anyway. You may feel that way but you know better than to jump headfirst into such things.

You're willing to wait however long it takes for you to say it back to him, though. You reach for his left hand that's resting on your hip and twine your fingers with his. He's freaking out. But there's hope starting to ignite in those wild, green eyes.

"Good," you whisper. "Don't stop."

His features light up like the cityscape in the midnight. He's so beautiful. And when his fingers start moving again inside you, you're quickly overwhelmed by those wonderful pulses of pleasure that shock through you. He curls his digits inside and hits that spot, brushing against your prostate and it makes you want to curl in on yourself and explode at the same time. You moan instead and his thick fingers push in deeper, spreading you.

It's a bit awkward for you to lay this way with your knee hooked over his shoulder, but his entire body is pressed against you, hot on those places of you that are rarely touched and you can't help but love the feeling.

You moan gently. Not that you're particularly vocal but you've been around the block to know that your typical stoicism isn't conducive to good sex. It's the one place you voluntarily break face. But at the moment, there's no need to remind yourself to be a bit vocal. Jake is doing an excellent job of coaxing those noises out of you. You only want to give him more when he's there, whispering encouragements at every jolt of your hips.

"Yeah…mmh, feels good, dunnit?"

"Yesssss…." You're all too eager to let him know how well he's doing.

"Dirk," he says as you're suddenly stretched wider; a third finger has pushed inside of you and your eyes shut when you gasp. "Dirk, I want to come inside of you."

Those fingers push in and out slowly and wonderfully and maddeningly and your muscles are stretching as Jake leans deeper into you. You end up shifting a little to let him whisper along your jaw.

"I want to feel nothing but your flesh and heat and come all over your insides until it's spilling out of this slutty hole of yours."

"Oh god…." He pushes against your prostate again and you're surprised your spine didn't snap in half with the sudden force of your back arching.

"And you want it too, don't you?" You open your eyes to look into his. His pupils are so wide and the rosy-bronze of his cheeks are set off by the urban glow that hazes through the open window. Summer breezes ruffle his slightly dampened locks of hair. "Tell me you want it."

"Do it," you say. "Fuck me hard and come inside me."

You gasp again when suddenly empty once again. You keep your chuckling to yourself though as you watch Jake lunge for the nightstand and the bottle of lube on it. Eager and energetic as always, even if it breaks that evil persona of his and shines through in some places.

You adore that about him.

Dirk: Be the impatient one.

You are now in a rush to get to the good stuff. Your name is Jake and not that watching Dirk undulate and keen at the whim of your fingers isn't fantastic but your newly burgeoning erection has been neglected long enough and you're quite enthusiastic to return it to where it belongs: inside of your lover.

You keep close, not willing to lose any physical contact with him as long as you can help it. Before you can slick yourself up, though, Dirk snatches the bottle from your hand and squeezes some of the lube onto his own fingers. He shifts and leans forward until his slicked hand wraps around your cock and he starts pumping it slowly.

Your head rolls back on your shoulders and you let out a low moan, rocking your hips in time to meet with his strokes. Your own hand joins with his motions for a moment, if only to wet your fingers before dipping down to his reddened orifice and spreading a bit more lube there.

But this is all quick because, as was previously mentioned, you're an impatient, horny fellow and your dear one is in dire need of getting fucked hard into the mattress. You take back your messy fingers and make a show of slurping noisily at them.

He's pleading with you in his eyes, pursing his lips and moaning.

"Let it out, lovely," you tell him as you take a hold of his hips and line yourself up.

"Shut up and fuck me."

You grin at him.

"Gladly."

You push in slowly and the both of you are groaning in some perfect, low harmony. It's the music of your desire for him. You could compose a thousand symphonies….

"God, you're so tight," you moan when your hips are finally cradling the firm curve of his ass. "Ever been on this side of the bed before?"

"No," he breathes.

"I'm your first…." You smooth your hands down his thighs and back up to grip those beautifully defined hips.

"Be gentle with me," he whispers, chuckling at the end of it. He's smiling at you. Your heart is melting inside your chest.

"I don't know if I can," you tell him. "You're so hot…." You take a moment to breathe and let him adjust a little. You are all the way in and you're sure that it's not like anything Dirk's ever felt before. "Does it hurt?" you ask him quietly.

"Hurts good, baby," he tells you, his hands stroking up your arms until he grasps your shoulders. You practically feel yourself purring. This man is perfect. And you're going to let him know it.

You let out a contented hum.

"Scream when it's good," you say. You pull out about halfway and then push right back in again. Dirk digs his blunt nails into your biceps and you shift one hand to his dick, rubbing your thumb in circles at the tip. You grip and stroke him in time with your thrusts.

Your pace is steady, but that's because you don't want to break anything in him by being too eager too quickly. You _will_ be pounding him into this bed before this is over, though.

And you're telling him about it too.

"You've got the sweetest squeeze, love," you say, your voice hitching with every slap of flesh. "Can't wait to hear you lose yourself and get your cum all over my hand."

"Jaaaaake…."

"Again, my name…again…."

"Jake…Jake, oh god, it feels so good…."

The bed is starting to knock against the wall again and Dirk is moaning at every short exhale he gives. You stroke the pad of your thumb along the ridge of his cock and you watch the foreskin as you tug it back. The muscles in his abdomen are rippling.

Dirk's nails tear down your arms; the raze of it sets fire to your blood. You hold him a little tighter and move a little faster. Fast enough to make Dirk's mouth fall open and his voice reach pitches you haven't heard from him before. If you weren't so focused on eating up every inch of him, your eyes would be rolling back into your head from how amazing you feel right now, in this moment.

Sick and lovely noises of your bodies colliding and sinking into each other fill your ears like a hush beneath his moaning and yours. You ram into him. He will have bruises in the morning—all over that perfect arse of his. And you'll have them on your hips. You'll wear them proudly.

"Jake…Jake," he chants your name like it's going to save him. "Harder, harder, fuck me harder!"

You wordlessly consent, quickening your strokes and slamming into him as hard as you can. Dirk is doing a magnificent impression of a that porn star part of him you like to imagine. Only when he moans like that it doesn't sound stupid and manufactured.

"You're beautiful," you tell him. "You're so hot. You're sexy and perfect and I adore you forever."

"Jake…." He looks up at you and pushed his hips back against you. "I'm losing it…."

"Then come," you say. "Scream my name and come. Squeeze my dick with that beautiful arse and let me fill you up." Your strokes speed up. Your other hand digs tight into his side. Your break the skin with your nails and when you look into Dirk's eyes and licks your lips, he's gone.

"A-ahh...Jake!" Cum spills all over your fingers and across his chest just as his muscles clench around you. The insane heat and pulse of it takes you over the edge and you bite hard into your bottom lip as you come inside him.

Pleasure bursts through you in white waves that roll down your spine. You tremble and shake, your hand almost disconnected from your brain as it continues to milk every drop from Dirk. His moaning doesn't cease until your finally remember yourself and still your motion.

You catch your breath. Gather yourself. You slowly pull out of him and lower his leg so he can lie comfortably on his back. For one swaying moment, you're on your knees, looking at him with his hair mussed and his flesh sweaty and red, splattered with cum, inside and out.

"So lovely," you whisper.

He smiles and jerks his head a little, gesturing to the pillow next to him. You lay down almost instantly and when you do, he moves the both of you into a spooning position with his arms around your middle and his nose to your hair.

"You're amazing, Jake," he murmurs, kissing the shell of your ear.

"No one's more amazing than you," you tell him. And it's funny how easily you can go from fucking him into the mattress to having his arms around you. You're safe and happy and you know that in the entire world, Dirk Strider is the only one who has ever let you be exactly who you want to be.

For that, you will love him until death.

-END-


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